Chapter 55 Poison Apple
Bella
The gardens are quieter than I expected. Morning light spills over everything—silver dew on the hedges, mist rising off the fountains, birds pretending this isn’t a castle full of dragons. Damien walks beside me, silent but not cold.
“So,” I say, glancing at him. “Do you actually spend time out here, or is this one of those royal features you show guests and never visit again?”
He looks mildly offended. “I come here.”
“When? In your spare time between brooding sessions?”
His mouth twitches. “You have a very odd idea of what kings do.”
“I’m adjusting it as we go.”
The path curves around a fountain carved from white stone, a dragon coiled around the base, water spilling from its jaws. The air smells faintly of jasmine and smoke. It’s beautiful, wild, sprawling, untamed in the way that only something ancient and loved could be.
I pluck a rose from one of the vines, ignoring the tiny thorn that nicks my thumb. “If this is technically your garden,” I say, “then this counts as borrowing, right?”
“It counts as theft.”
“Borrowing,” I repeat firmly. “Besides, I’m fairly certain queens are allowed to borrow.”
That earns me a look, one eyebrow raised, and my stomach does an entirely unreasonable flip. I change the subject quickly. “So, do you grow anything useful out here? Or just romantic decor?”
“Some plants are enchanted,” he says. “They only bloom under dragonfire.”
I blink. “Of course they do.”
Before I can ask him to demonstrate, a shout echoes from down the path. “Your Majesty!” Two guards rush toward us, armour glinting in the sun. “Urgent matter, Sire.”
Damien’s jaw tightens. I can see the hesitation in his eyes. “Stay here,” he says, quietly but firmly.
“Go,” I say, waving him off. “I can survive five minutes without you.”
He hesitates one more heartbeat, then nods and turns to meet the guards.
The moment he’s gone, the garden feels… bigger. Colder. I exhale slowly and wander a little further along the path, trailing my fingers through the lavender bushes. The world is calm and peaceful—until it isn’t. A soft humming drifts from behind the hedges. Old and low, a melody that seems to scrape at the edges of memory. I turn, and there is an old woman, cloaked and hooded, standing by a gnarled apple tree I swear wasn’t there a moment ago. Her basket is full of fruit so red it looks painted.
“Well, hello,” I say carefully.
The woman tilts her head. “Such a pretty girl, wandering alone.” Her voice is soft, dry like old parchment. “You look hungry.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Hungry?”
She lifts an apple, holding it out to me. The skin gleams like rubies. “For the dragon’s chosen,” she murmurs. “A gift of peace.”
The way she says it makes me pause. My instincts whisper bad idea, plus I've just eaten breakfast, I'm in no way hungry, but honestly, it would be rude to refuse a gift.
“It’s just an apple?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at the odd gift.
“Sweet as love,” she croons.
I shouldn’t, but my curiosity is bigger than my caution. “Alright, Granny,” I say, taking it. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”
Her smile is thin. “Oh, I count on it.”
I bite into the apple. It’s perfect—crisp, sweet, cold.... The taste shifts instantly, sharp and metallic, flooding my tongue like ice. My stomach drops, and the world tilts. Shit...this is one of those 'don't take candy from strangers' situations.
Damien
The guards’ words blur. I’m not listening. There’s a pull in my chest that's sharp and wrong. The bond flares like a brand.
She’s in danger, my dragon snarls.
I’m already running. Through the archway, across the lawn. The air shifts; the scent of her frost cuts through the garden like a blade. And then I see her. She’s standing in the sunlight, one hand limp at her side, the other clutching a half-bitten apple. Her eyes find mine, confused, glassy—and she crumples.
“Bella!”
I reach her before she hits the ground. The apple rolls away, its skin now blackened and dripping something tar-thick. A hiss of magic burns the grass where it lands. The old woman is gone. Only the echo of her laughter remains.
Poison, my dragon growls.
I gather Bella in my arms. Her skin is cold, and it's not her usual kind of cold. The bond is thrashing inside me, fighting the dying pulse of hers. “No. No, no, no.”
Fire rises in my throat, searing through my veins.
She’s fading. Do something.
I press my forehead to hers, forcing the breath from my chest into her lungs. Dragonfire hums beneath my skin, dangerous and wild, but I push it into her anyway. It burns against her frost, steam curling between our mouths. Ice and fire. Death and life. Her body arches once in my arms, a gasp catching in her throat. For a moment, everything stills. Then—She breathes and the frost breaks. Her magic bursts from her skin in a flurry of snowflakes, dissolving into glittering mist that sparkles against my fire. When her eyes open, they’re glowing faintly—pale blue, rimmed in gold.
“Bella,” I whisper.
She blinks slowly, disoriented. “What… what happened?”
“You bit the wrong fruit.”
She coughs once, then croaks, “Was it at least organic?”
Despite everything, a strangled laugh escapes me. Relief hits so hard it hurts. I cradle her closer, my forehead pressed to hers. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” she whispers weakly, “you keep saving me.”
“Always.”
My dragon rumbles in agreement, voice low and rough. She liked that.
I ignore him... Barely. Bella glances toward the apple lying a few feet away, its once-perfect skin now cracked open, revealing pulsing black veins. “Remind me never to accept fruit from strangers again.”
“Noted.”
She tries to sit up, and I help her. Her hands are shaking, but her spirit isn’t. She stares at the spot where the old woman disappeared. “That wasn’t just poison, was it?”
“No,” I say quietly. “That was witchcraft. Ancient. Someone sent her.”
Her gaze meets mine. “Someone who doesn’t like dragons?”
“Someone who doesn’t like you.”
She reaches up, her cold fingers brushing my jaw. “Guess you’re not the only one considered to be a beast.”
The words shouldn’t cut the way they do, but they do. Her touch is soft, steady, and it steals the breath straight from my chest.
I cover her hand with mine, holding it there against my skin. “Then they should learn to fear the right kind of beasts,” I murmur.
I rise, lifting her with me. “We’re done for today,” I say, quieter now, more to myself than to her. “I’ll have the guards sweep the grounds.”
She leans slightly into my side as we start toward the castle gates. “You’ll find her?”
“Yes.” I glance down at her. “And when I do, she’ll wish she’d stayed buried in her story.”
Her lips curve into the smallest, wickedest smile. “Good.”
The snow drifts after us as we walk, silent witnesses to the promise neither of us says aloud—if beasts are what they see, then beasts are what they’ll get.